


A Mad, Evil Love

by Vera_dAuriac



Category: Lucia di Lammermoor - Donizetti/Cammarano
Genre: Blood Kink, Comeplay, Cutting, F/M, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Sibling Incest, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, sexual misuse of a sharp object
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29493369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: ENRICOUn folle t'accese, un perfido amore(A mad, evil love consumed you)http://www.murashev.com/opera/Lucia_di_Lammermoor_libretto_English_Italian101Lucia and Enrico have a complex relationship. Read the tags.
Relationships: Lucia Ashton/Enrico Ashton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve taken inspiration from the opera, added a dash or two of Scott, and then done whatever the hell I wanted. So, no, things aren’t going to line up exactly with the opera, but I’m OK with that, and hope you are, too. It starts precanon and ends at the end of Act 2. I give you leave to imagine the Act 3 of your choice.
> 
> The fic is written, I'm just taking my time proofreading. I'll probably post a chapter a day. Also, I've tried to leave it vague so you can picture the Lucia and Enrico of your choice. But I will say the Met version with Anna Netrebko and Mariusz Kwiecien was my inspiration, fyi.
> 
> I went through more handwringing with this fic than just about anything else I’ve ever written. Thank you to all the people who talked me through it when I was freaking out, including storyskein and my Smutty Ladies. Also, thanks to solraneth, who I promised fucked up Lucia fic in exchange for fucked up Don Carlo fic, and I’d never break a promise. And an extra heap of thanks and love to automaticdreamlandkid who has offered invaluable support and inspiration through this process.
> 
> I don’t own these folks. I mean, I REALLY don’t. Donizetti and Scott are both surely appalled. Once again, please, READ THE TAGS.

**By Vera d'Auriac**

The knife point rests just above his wrist. She sees him tense, ready to drag the blade in a bloody strip along his beautiful arm, darkened by the sun and strengthened by sport. That arm should remain pristine, as flawless as the rest of him. To Lucia’s mind, her brother is the ideal in all things. Nothing, not even he, can be permitted to mar his immaculateness.

But Enrico desires this in a way she cannot understand. Not yet. He would wish for her to never understand, but Enrico’s control over Lucia will never be as strong as he desires it.

“Enrico. Stop. You must stop.”

His angry eyes flash at her, and only her desire to preserve his faultless body could spur her on under that glare. But she will do anything for Enrico. Right now, she desperately fights her own beating heart to keep from withering under his anger. Yet, she would fight an army for him.

“Lucia, leave me alone. You should not be here.”

Lucia is used to following her brother’s every request, so this direct command ought to send her running. Only the thought of him being harmed, even by his own hand, makes her steadfast, propels her toward him, instead of away. He turns his face away from her, the shame of being caught by her like this too much for him. When her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, the air seems to shift and splinter around them, the very act of being alive cutting them as surely as his knife could.

“Why?” she whispers to him. “Why would you do this? You… you were about to cut yourself, weren’t you?”

Her voice is so soft, so innocent, it makes his heart ache. He could lie—he wants to—but Enrico and Lucia have always been honest with each other. No one else has ever told them the truth, certainly not when it mattered. When they were small children, they hid together in a dark corner on the top floor of the house in a cold room used to store old furniture and battered trunks. It is in that forgotten room where they are used to telling one another their most intimate thoughts. They call it a game; they even give it the childish name Secret Boxes, but in point of fact, in that room they open their hearts and bleed together, even without the use of a knife. It is where Enrico first cried with Lucia when their father beat him. Where he confesses his fear that he is a coward for not killing their father like he wants to. It is where Lucia confesses her dreams (Waking or sleeping dreams? She didn’t say.) of being ravaged.

But as they have aged, sometimes they find the courage to speak their most precious thoughts in the bold light of day. And today Enrico has no defenses against his beloved sister, so the secret must be revealed in the shadow of the Siren at the fountain’s edge.

“I do it because it makes me feel better.”

She holds tight to his shoulders, her fingers trembling with the pressure. “But your beautiful arm.”

“I need it, Lucia.”

“To balance your humors? Call the physician. He can do it precisely with his thin blades.”

This makes Enrico shudder. “It is not the same. I need it to be…messy. I need to do it myself.”

For a few moments more, Lucia remains a sweet girl, innocent in deed if not thought. She does not know how soon that will change, or that this will be the last time she ever stands on tiptoe to kiss Enrico’s cheek without it being fraught with meaning for her. For him, meaning has slowly been seeping into their interactions for some time now. It is one of the few things he has never told her.

“Why do you need to do it? Tell me.”

Enrico sighs, not wanting to try to explain this to Lucia. He has barely been able to explain it to himself, after all, and the explanation hasn’t actually brought him understanding. He sits on the side of the fountain resting his blade to his right as Lucia sits on his left. She holds his hand, but that does not make the words come more easily and he cannot look at her.

“It’s a release. When my emotions get too much, it’s somewhere for me to put them.”

She squeezes his hand, wishing, more than believing, it might help him. “But what about Secret Boxes? Can’t you leave what troubles you with me in the corner? Why hurt yourself?”

“I can’t explain, Lucia. I can only tell you what is.”

“So you’ve done this before?” She pauses and he does not answer, but that is its own response. “Do you do it often?”

“I…a few times. Not often. Only when it’s bad.”

Lucia remembers a bandage on her brother’s ankle a few months earlier, after their father flew into a rage and said he had a fool for a son who did nothing but embarrass him. If she allowed her mind to wander, she knows she would see more times in her memory that Enrico did this to himself. But if it helps him, perhaps she should let him draw the blade up his arm. Find his peace.

“Is this about Cristiana?” Lucia now asks, having heard whispers about the girl Enrico has been courting. But this question is only marginally less awful for him than her previous one. When he woke this morning, he had thought everything might be about to change in his life. His father’s political needs would drive his marriage, a fact he accepted long ago, and one that made little enough difference to him. When he had been introduced to Cristiana, he had remained calm and indifferent. If they were to be married, his feelings would matter little enough, so why allow his emotions to become engaged? But then two weeks ago, at this very fountain, he and Cristiana had kissed, and for the first time in his life, he had permitted himself to believe he might be happy.

But his life did change that morning, just in an entirely different way. At breakfast, his father informed him that Cristiana’s family had switched allegiances, and there would be no wedding. It was only at that moment that Enrico realized the deep affection he had formed for Cristiana, and the joy he had begun to feel about the prospect of marriage, which would remove him from Ravenswood.

“Cristiana is gone from my life.” He wants to add more, but he cannot form words, a sob the only sound he is capable of making, and he would die before he does that in front of Lucia.

Lucia wraps her arms around her brother in his pain, rests her head on his shoulder. He never told her how he felt about Cristiana, but they are beyond the need for such communication. Also, she saw him kiss Cristiana here at the fountain. She has longed to know what that feels like ever since she spied them. She wants to understand everything Enrico experiences. What he knows, she needs to know.

“Now I am as sad as you are,” she says, rubbing her cheek on his shoulder.

She likes to believe this is true, but she did not experience the joy and hope Enrico felt when he believed he would escape here with a woman who would make him happy. Without knowing that hope, Lucia cannot feel the crushing disappointment of its loss.

“You know nothing,” Enrico snaps, his statement as untrue and unfair as hers.

“Then tell me.” She clutches his arm with both hands. Does she hope knowledge can be transmitted by touch? Does she fear he might leave? Does she simply need the strength that only comes from physical contact? She could not say, even if she could think of her actions in these terms. Lucia longs for this contact with her brother, though. That she knows as surely as she knows that there is a God in Heaven.

“I will forever be trapped by father’s desires for me. And mother is even worse.” They both shudder at the thought of their domineering mother. “And so are you, Lucia.” He turns to look at his sister, grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her. “We are trapped here as certain as a rabbit in a snare. Our lives are not our own.”

This is nothing new to Lucia. Reverend Bidebent has taught her as much for as long as she can remember. All is fated, particularly for her. Enrico, though, clearly does not accept this for himself. It’s blasphemy, she thinks. But the fire and passion in her brother’s eyes make Lucia side with him, even against God.

“You can control your own pain, though,” she whispers into his hurt eyes. “With the knife, you can control it.”

He sags, dropping his forehead against hers. She not only understands, but she put into words what he could not. Did he know before this moment that digging into his body with a blade is not only about release but control? He realizes he did not. Blessed Lucia sees so much more than he gives her credit for.

“I want to do it now,” he intones softly, eyes closed. If someone walked by this place, he would think Enrico in prayer. No one walks by. Lucia and Enrico are alone.

“Cut me, too. I want to know what it’s like.”

“No,” he opens his eyes, but does not otherwise move. “I could never do that to you. Marking your body would be a sin.”

“And yet you mark your own! If it is no sin for you, it is no sin for me. Please. Let me share this with you.”

“Never. No, Lucia.” He turns away from her, and picks up his knife, its solid hilt, wrapped in soft leather, a comfort. “Let me do this. Alone.”

She is on her feet in a moment, draping herself across his bent back. Her hands clutch him, and he would have to fight to shake her loose. Enrico trembles, needing Lucia near, needing her gone, not knowing if he can cut himself while she clings to him. But he cannot throw her off or force her away. The only thing he is less capable of is putting his blade to her flesh. A compromise.

“You may stay, but I will not cut you. That is final.”

“But Enrico—”

“No!” He growls the word, anger and his deep ache filling his voice. “It is impossible. Stay and let me do this, and then let us be finished here.”

What Enrico offers is not enough for Lucia, but she knows his voice and that she must accept this. She brushes hair from his eyes, kisses the back of his neck. “No more arguments. Just let me stay.”

He lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. “Yes. You may stay.” Since her arrival, his sleeve has slipped back down. He rests the knife once more on the edge of the fountain and deliberately rolls the sleeve over his elbow. Another deep breath (he can feel Lucia’s body raise and lower as he inhales and exhales), and he takes back up the knife.

Along the back of his forearm, slightly above the wrist, he places the tip, slowly presses down, and waits. Another breath later, and he sees the first drop of blood. He drags the blade slowly up, keeping the pressure even. A wave of relief washes over him after a couple of inches and he stops. He holds his hand over the fountain and watches the blood drip in.

Softly, as though to speak any louder would break the spell that has fallen over them, Enrico begins to tell Lucia a story. “Years and years ago, several generations in the past, there was a young Ravenswood heir. He and a beautiful maiden fell in love. They wanted to run away, but then one day he saw her with the man her family wanted her to marry. He grew jealous. If he could not have her, he would deny her to anyone else.”

Enrico pauses and places his knifepoint at a spot a thumbnail’s width to the side of the first cut and starts drawing a parallel line in his flesh. “This Ravenswood sent his beloved a letter, asking her to meet him at the Fountain of the Siren. He stood in the shadows waiting for her.” Enrico hisses at the perfect mingling of pain and release.

“She arrived and he watched her in the moonlight. He thought her the most pale and beautiful creature in the world, but she had betrayed him, and he could not let the betrayal stand. And so he came up behind her.” Enrico begins to make one more line next to the previous two.

“He stabbed her in the heart.” Enrico holds his sweetly aching arm out over the fountain, the blood flowing freely from all three cuts. “She collapsed on the edge, looked up at him, declared her love, and fell into the fountain, which became her grave.”

Lucia’s knuckles are white, she clasps her brother so fiercely. Tears fall from her eyes. Neither of them can speak though, and the silence is so profound she wonders if she hears his blood hitting the fountain. (She does not. Not literally. In her heart, the sound will echo for the rest of her days.)

Then Enrico exhales, and they both sag forward and the mist in Lucia’s mind and eyes clears enough that she sees and comprehends Enrico’s bleeding arm. She jumps away from him. He feels heavier without her weight.

“We need to bind your wounds,” she declares, reaching into her pocket in search of her handkerchief. She pulls it free as Enrico weakly slumps to the side of the fountain. When he looks up at her determined face, ready to heal him, something in him crumbles a bit. It is the only explanation he can make for what happens later.

Lucia cradles his palm in her own hand as she presses her hastily folded handkerchief to his wounds. The blood seeps through the light linen, but she does not lessen the pressure. “Your own handkerchief,” she says, raising her eyes to his face. He meets her gaze. “We need something to tie the bandage in place. Anything.”

He passes over his handkerchief and watches her use the utmost care, arranging the bandage she had fashioned and tying it off. It is more care than anyone has ever shown him, as he is acutely aware. His hand trembles under her touch, but it is not from pain or blood loss.

“There,” she says, rinsing her fingers in the fountain. When she smiles at him, both their hearts ache. She reaches out, brushes her damp fingertips across his cheek. His eyes flutter closed at her touch. “All better.”

“Yes,” is all he trusts himself to say.

“I saw you kiss Cristiana here.”

His eyes open to see his sister staring at him, her eyes soft and pleading. He would run away if he could move. This is the look he has longed to see from Lucia without ever knowing it. The awareness that he should not want it frightens him.

“Kiss me,” she asks. If she could not share what he did before, she is determined to have this. He drifts further away from her with every act she cannot understand. She refuses to lose him.

“Lucia.” He tries to shake his head, but her hand has never left his cheek.

“I want to know what it’s like. Show me.”

He cannot deny her, and he hates that this is something else beyond his control. After this day, much of what motivates Enrico will be tied to this need to control his sister. He needs something that is his to decide and dictate, and Lucia is what is within his grasp.

But that is tomorrow. For today, he can deny Lucia nothing more.

He allows her shaking hand to pull his face closer to hers. When he is so close he can feel her breath on his parted lips, he pauses, giving them one final moment before they can never turn back from this chasm. But in their hearts, they fell past the edge already, and they are at that moment already tumbling into their new lives. A final breath to pretend for a last heartbeat that everything hasn’t changed irrevocably, and then he kisses her.

Their lips barely meet, and they are still. Lucia, though, saw Enrico kiss Cristiana, and she knows there is more. She presses harder against him, moves her lips on instinct, and naturally, she is right. Without thinking, Enrico matches her, and the kiss deepens.

Hands slip into hair and trace throats. Mouths open more widely and tongues slide between them. Breaths become shallow and rapid. Soon their entire bodies have reacted without deliberate intent on either of their parts. Enrico is painfully hard, and Lucia is confused at the wetness between her legs. It could so easily continue further, their desire consummated already. Lucia would surely allow her brother to do everything he might wish. Enrico, though, still has something inside him that screams at him to stop. To worship and cherish her body. He lacks the goodness to touch Lucia. Every man does.

“No,” he pulls away and jumps to his feet. “Enough. You wished to know what it is like to be kissed. Now you know. Enough.”

Breathless and frustrated, Lucia does not know where to look or what she might do. The kiss had been heaven, and who wishes to leave paradise? She wants the taste of him on her tongue again. She wants him to relieve the throbbing between her legs, not understanding at this point how that ache goes away. More than anything, she wants her brother and the quiet closeness they have lived this afternoon to continue indefinitely.

“But there is more,” she finally says.

He had looked back at her when she began to speak, but he turns away now, unable to deny her or give her what she asks for. Does she know what she asks is wrong? He glances at her flawless face and, somehow, still innocent eyes. She must know, but she just as clearly does not care. But he cannot grant this to her. Like cutting her, on this day, Enrico has his limits.

“I’m leaving, Lucia. Get back to the house.” He picks up his jacket, which fell to the ground and is now covered with leaves, shakes it, and slips it onto his quaking frame.

“But Enrico! You cannot go away! There is more. I…I need you to stay. We….”

She knows her arguments will not detain him. She does not understand what is driving him away, but she comprehends her powerlessness to prevent it. Tears streak her cheeks unchecked.

“Tell everyone I might not be back for supper. Don’t wait for me.”

“Enrico!” Lucia sobs her brother’s name over and over as he stalks off, terrified this encounter by the fountain has broken something between them. It has. Just not in the way she fears at this moment.


	2. Chapter 2

Time passes after the incident at the fountain. They remain close, and there are moments when Lucia believes her brother is on the verge of kissing her again. He never does, and Lucia does not ask. Neither marry or find love. Their father dies, taking some of the bitterness of the Ashtons’ home with him, but he overflowed with it and left behind a great deal for his wife. Lady Ashton’s manipulations and dictatorship rule at Ravenswood, in spite of Enrico’s nominal control. It infuriates him, but unless he locks his mother in a tower, he can do nothing to alter his life. He often contemplates this, and only the approbation of the world prevents him. He still has hopes of achieving success and power in society and cannot wholly disdain the opinions of his neighbors, as much as he would like. And jailing one’s mother rarely makes friends.

Then again, if Enrico had what he likes, well, then he would have Lucia. There would be no hesitation, no dilemma over the state of either of their souls. Were there no one else in the world to please, Enrico would lock all the doors and live out his days with Lucia and no one else.

Because Enrico longs for the two things his parents have denied him his entire life—love and agency. His hard father and mother’s malignant influence have left little room for joy or meaning in his life, except for what he finds with Lucia. He feels broken by this, and while he believes his sister deserves better than a shattered man, he knows that only someone who has also lived this life has any hope of making him whole. And darling Lucia always does as he asks, making her the one aspect of his life aside from his self-inflicted pain he can control. He grips her so tightly, anyone weaker would break.

Lucia is not strong for anyone but her brother, though, yet she forces herself when she sees what he needs from her. She is less naïve now than she was that day at the fountain. But with knowledge only comes darkness and confusion, not light and clarity. Her soul grows more muddled every day, and she has to hide this from Enrico. For him, she is stalwart. Inside, she worries she is crumbling away.

Lucia tries to love her mother. Reverend Bidebent stresses the importance of honoring one’s father and mother. She wants to feel enough love for her mother that God does not notice how much her brother despises the woman who gave them life. Lucia thinks mother might be planning a marriage for her. Enrico, she suspects, is doing the same. (She is correct on both counts.) She wants to obey and love them both, but she knows she will eventually be forced to choose between them. It never seriously crosses her mind to tell either of them she does not wish to marry. She would rather stay at Ravenswood with Enrico forever.

This is Lucia’s state of mind one morning when she goes for a walk on her own. Solitude provides her calmest moments in these times. No Enrico raging at the world; no mother conniving. Enrico and the huntsman, Normanno, try to tell her this is not safe, but Lucia does not care. No, that is not entirely accurate. She _does_ care. She hopes it is _not_ as safe as it seems to her. Lucia hides her wish for danger from everyone, even herself. Perhaps something painful and frightening will happen while she tramps alone across the fields. Something that will jolt her. Catch her attention—mind, body, and soul—so uncompromisingly she will find the clarity which eludes her.

This morning remains chill, the mist swirling around her shoulders. Anything could be lurking just a few feet away from her, and she feels her heart racing. When was the last time she could tell herself that she is truly alive? She cannot even guess. At any moment, she might twist her ankle in a rabbit hole and collapse to the ground, lying there for hours until someone finds her. Or a man emerge from the ghostly fog and ravage her. She still dreams that dream, but she no longer talks to her brother about it.

Something rustles to her left, and Lucia freezes. She peers into the dense whiteness, listens, but nothing. Should she continue to walk forward, finish making her way across this field? But her mind has wandered as profoundly as her feet, and she realizes she has no notion of what field she is in. Is this the wild moor of their neighbors, the Grants? The Taggarts’ sheep pasture? The rustle comes again, followed by a scraping of the ground. And then the earth shakes.

Lucia gasps when the bull appears from the mist. Its horns are long and pointing at her. Even in her fright, though, she has sense enough not to run. Where would she even run to? She remembers that she is so lost, she hasn’t even a notion of what direction to go for help. The danger she both ignored and courted is staring her down.

Steam streams from the beast’s nostrils, as it snorts at her. Lucia understands now that she has not merely stumbled across this animal but found herself in a place it considers sacred. It will kill her for this trespass before it permits her to leave. She prays that God look after Enrico for her.

The bull charges. Lucia screams.

While she is making her peace with death, a shot rings out. The bull takes another step, two, stumbles, falls to the ground, skids, stops a few feet away from her. Lucia convinces herself she will not die today. She will see Enrico once more.

“Are you alright?” The voice is quickly followed by a body emerging from the fog, a young man, handsome and trim, eyes intense, cheeks red. He runs for Lucia, just as the bull had, but nothing stops him, and Lucia is glad of this. He rests one hand on her shoulder, the other clutching a musket, and at last she takes a breath and nearly swoons.

“You saved me,” she says to this man, who as quickly as that shot dropped the bull, has won her heart.

“What are you doing out here alone? Didn’t you see the fence?”

Lucia’s mind travels back through her morning, but her memories are as full of mist as the landscape, so she does not recall climbing over the stile and into the paddock where the McKees pasture their bull. Enrico will have to compensate the family, but the cost will have nothing to do with his anger about the incident.

“I…I got lost. Thank you. I…I don’t know how to thank you. I owe you my life.”

At this he blushes, because in spite of the hard times that currently plague him and his family, he is a proud man, and Lucia’s thanks embarrasses him. Lucia, however, could not be more charmed by his sweet looks.

“You owe me no thanks,” he finally says. “I am only glad you are well.”

“I don’t even know your name,” she laughs, the shock still coursing through her. “To whom do I not owe my life and thanks?”

“Edgardo. My name is Edgardo. Edgardo Ravenswood.”

He whispers his family name, because while Lucia might be in shock, he is not, and he has recognized her as the sister of his great rival. She, who lives in his ancestral home, whose family enjoys the support of the government. He would have saved any woman who stood in front of that charging bull. Seeing her now, though, he would have saved her with enthusiasm, even knowing who she is. Sister of his rival or not, he is smitten. Edgardo Ravenswood loves Lucia Ashton. It is that simple. For him.

For Lucia nothing will ever be simple. She cares not at all that this man before her has sworn vengeance on her family. He is beautiful and her savior. No, the history of their family bothers her not in the least. When she remembers he is the ancestor of the man who killed the girl at the fountain, the fact makes her heart race almost as much as the bull did. The only thing that nags at her, that holds back a corner of her heart from this noble, brave man is her love for Enrico. That will be with her forever.

“Thank you, Edgardo Ravenswood. I am Lucia Ashton, and I am forever in your debt.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Ashton. We should tell the McKees what happened, and then I will see you safe home.”

“My brother, of course, will pay for the bull. It is my fault you had to kill it.”

“Absolutely not. I will pay for it. Let us discuss it no further.” Edgardo means the words and wants to compensate the McKees, but Wolf’s Crag is crumbling around him. He is ashamed and relieved two days later when word reaches him that Enrico Ashton has already paid for the death of the animal while he is still scraping together the money.

Old McKee takes the death of his bull hard, and he clearly wants to launch a tirade at Lucia, and he surely would if she were any girl besides an Ashton. McKee’s fury is weathered, though, and Edgardo walks her back to Ravenswood. His heart aches as soon as he spots the tower of the house above the tree line, but he continues on with a smile he does not feel. When they run into Normanno, they find that Lucia has been gone so long, search parties have been formed. Edgardo reluctantly leaves Lucia with him, not telling the huntsman anything, allowing Lucia to spin what tale she deems best. She does not “spin” anything, though. She tells Normanno the truth, but begs him to say he does not know who saved her when Enrico asks. Her voice is so weak and pleading, Normanno agrees.

The pact, however, does not matter. Enrico has seen Edgardo return Lucia to Normanno from his lookout where he has been coordinating the search for her. He can see in their posture that they have fallen in love, and Enrico is overcome with the urge to kill this man. He even runs several feet down the hill to tear this man limb from limb, before he recovers his senses. Somehow, he will keep these two apart, but not by killing this man in front of Lucia.

When Enrico reaches Lucia and Normanno, his sister’s new love is gone. She cries out when she sees Enrico and collapses sobbing into his arms. The trauma and emotions of the day have finally overwhelmed her, and she weeps in her brother’s embrace while Normanno relates the story without mentioning Edgardo’s name. Enrico trembles with rage as the story reaches its end. He holds Lucia by the shoulders at arm’s length so he might look her in the eye.

“How could you be so thoughtless!” He shakes her, infuriated that she shows so little care for herself. If he had lost her today, he would have been incapable of going on. Does she not realized that she almost killed him as well?

“Look at me, Lucia.” He now holds her terribly still and says nothing more until they lock eyes. “No more going out alone. If you leave the house, Alisa goes with you. Do you understand?”

She nods through her sobs, angry at herself for losing her solitary walks, even though she thinks of how she no longer wanted them to be solitary. She wanted to take them with Edgardo. How will she see him with Alisa? She will have to swear Alisa to secrecy. Having only found Edgardo this morning, she cannot already give him up.

Enrico spies some of this in her eyes, and when he goes to pay McKee the next day, he demands the name of the man who killed the bull and saved his sister. When he is told he owes Lucia’s life to his greatest rival, a man he knows Lucia to be in love with, it is all he can do to stop himself from going to Wolf’s Crag and demanding satisfaction. He knows that if he does nothing, he will lose Lucia to Edgardo, and he cannot give her up. He must find a way to keep her always close to him. Strangely enough, he has the perfect solution—he must find Lucia a husband.

If he selects his sister’s husband, he can control her affections. A man who will treat her with tenderness and respect, but with whom she is under no threat of loving more than she loves him. Enrico cannot bear the thought of anyone else coming first in Lucia’s affections.

The idea pains him deeply, though. Another man touching Lucia, experiencing her body—it is repellent to him. But if Enrico does not select for her, she will try to choose for herself, and her inclinations are tilting toward his greatest rival and someone she believes she loves. He will permit anything before he allows that.

He goes alone to the stable late that night, everyone having turned in early after the excitement of the day. He brushes down his horse, paces around the stalls, climbs to the loft and back down and then up again. Many men would be happy to marry Lucia and connect their family to the Ashtons. But which will treat Lucia well without her falling in love? He collapses back against a haybale, sickened by the need to picture each possible husband touching his sister and what reaction it might spark in her.

It’s too much for him to contemplate, and he pulls out the knife at his belt. He tries to limit himself in this, but he has failed lately, the stresses from inside and outside of Ravenswood piling up in a tangle of his hateful mother’s pressure on him to take a more active role in the political intrigues of Edinburgh and London. His left arm, well, he knows he should not cut anywhere on it again so soon. And wounds on his legs, he has found, heal unpredictably. Does he trust himself with the knife in his left hand? Yes, he decides that he does.

He pushes his right sleeve up, exposing the fresh skin of his forearm. Just a small cut should get him through the night. Help him forget visions of Lucia finding her pleasure, face ecstatic, under someone else’s touch. He pulls the knife across his skin, closes his eyes and the relief washes over him, and replaces the picture of other men touching Lucia with himself. He is touching her—his hands tracing her throat, brushing across nipples hard with want for him, slipping between her legs.

His own need is now real and insistent. It is dark and late and no one will look for him in the stable hayloft. He opens his trousers enough to reach in, his erection already full and sensitive to just the brush of his fingers. With a harsh fury, he begins to work himself, images of Lucia’s naked body racing through his mind.

He is slick, more slick than he should be just from what leaks from his tip, he realizes. He opens his eyes and sees that his tight grip has caused the blood to flow faster from his cut. The blood has run down his arm to his hand then through his fingers and is now coating his erection. A growl deep in his throat, full of self-loathing for how much this excites him, spurs him on. He finishes swiftly, biting down on his left fist so they don’t hear him all the way up at the house. It’s Lucia’s rapturous face he sees as he spends.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's often The Scene that sparks a fic into life. In case you were curious, this is it.

Enrico’s plans for Lucia’s marriage stall with the sudden death of their mother. They both experience guilt and relief at her passing, and Lucia at least, feels some genuine grief. But her real mourning is light and short, thanks to her meetings with Edgardo. Enrico knows nothing of these rendezvouses, thinking Alisa would not allow it and report to him if Lucia attempted it. Once it is seemly, he speaks privately with Arturo Bucklaw about marrying Lucia as soon as is decent.

A tension exists between the siblings that has never been there before. She senses his jealousy, and he knows she is hiding her feelings. And yet, they both still hold need and desire for the other. That can never go completely away.

Late one night during a storm, Enrico remains awake at his desk, answering and writing letters. Sleep often eludes him, but he is so busy, it matters little. He has yet to tell his sister, who he promised when they played Secret Boxes in the attic he would always tell her the truth, that she will marry Arturo before the year is out. The family needs this alliance, and Lucia will play her part. He needs it as well, his growing need for her threatening to assert itself. So far, he has controlled his emotions and lusts thanks to his knife, but he knows it will not remain so indefinitely. He must get her away before he can no longer hold back, and Arturo is perfect. Even married to him, Lucia will often be able to come to Ravenswood, so he won’t lose her from his life, just as a constant temptation every night and day.

And yet the deceit eats at him. His knife lays on his desk, offering itself to him. He stares at it for several long minutes, its metal gleaming in the occasional flashes of lightning. As he wraps his hand around the hilt, he believes he hasn’t already made up his mind, but in truth, his body knows as soon as his fingers brush against the leather grip, he will cut himself. Once he squeezes it in his fist, even his mind knows, and the only question left is where.

His left arm, his preferred spot, has become a mass of thin, white scars since that day at the fountain with Lucia. He could probably find a spot on one of his legs or the other arm. But the pain of losing Lucia, even to the man he chose for her, will devour him if he cannot focus it. This night calls for something new and bold, the old options inadequate.

With a snap of his wrist, he bangs the knife back down on the desk. He removed his cravat and waistcoat hours ago, but now he unbuttons his shirt down to the middle of his chest. A thin stripe across his heart to remember this night and how much he loves Lucia. He closes his eyes, pictures her flawless face, soft lips that smile too infrequently, and the intense eyes that used to turn to him for love and protection and now turn elsewhere. Her sweet voice and shining hair. He’s now aching in his trousers in addition to his soul.

Enrico presses the point of the knife to a spot not far above his heart. Slowly, he drags the blade across from left to right, able to watch the gentle flow of blood leave the cut and trickle down his chest. The release of blood and the focus of pain is exquisite. But even as that tension lets up, he’s grown entirely hard as almost always happens now. The hand free of the knife adjusts his erection through his trousers. He should just reach inside and find that second release.

“I can’t sleep.”

Lucia stands at the door to Enrico’s study, hair mussed, wrinkled nightgown only partially hidden by her robe. Enrico longs to take her weary body in his arms. But then he remembers the blood flowing down his chest and pulls his hand away from his trousers.

“What is wrong?” he asks, fishing into his pocket for his handkerchief.

“The storm,” she answers as she starts into the room. And then she sees the blood, rushes to him, and kneels at his side.

“What is wrong? Let me help.” She takes the handkerchief from him and presses it to the wound.

“It is nothing,” he pretends, not able to find the words to tell her the truth about his plans or feelings.

Thunder shakes the windows, and Lucia jumps, nearly dropping the handkerchief. Enrico presses her hand tighter against his chest and wraps her to him with his other arm. Her head rests on his shoulder, and he kisses the top of her head.

Carefully, Enrico helps Lucia to her feet and leads her to a small sofa where they can sit side by side and hold each other. He is determined to see her through the storm outside, whatever hell he may have inside himself. She is just as resolute about helping him weather the storm in his soul. Enrico places himself in the corner, sits Lucia next to him, and pulls her to his side. Once more, she lays her head on his shoulder, her delicate fingers still pressing against the wound.

“The storm woke me,” she finally whispers. “It was dark and loud, and I was afraid.”

“You never have to be afraid when I’m here.” He pulls the handkerchief away from the wound. The bleeding has stopped, and he drops the cloth to the floor. In the candlelight he can see his blood has stained her fingertips. He kisses each, feels a thrill go through her body, and without thinking about the line he is crossing, sucks each into his mouth until it is clean and moves on to the next. 

Lucia trembles, and Enrico pulls her onto his lap so he might hold her close, knowing she will discover his erection and not caring. Emboldened by his embrace and feeding off his obvious desire, she buries her face in his neck and kisses him gently with feverish lips. In just these few moments, they have so far surpassed what happened between them at the fountain, they are lost. They hope that in one another they might find their way.

Enrico loses one hand in the tumble of her hair. The other he uses to pull up her nightgown. Once he can reach under the hem, he slides his hand between her warm thighs until he finds her wet in anticipation of him. He touches her and she whimpers. Without the need for another thought, he sinks his fingers inside her, searches around her opening, mapping her, finds her hot and swollen at the top, begins to move his slick fingers over her.

Lucia clings to him, her one clear thought that she always knew there was more she could feel if only she knew how to find it. Her brother has found it, though, and she could weep with how good he makes her feel. She always knew, even when she smiled and laughed with Edgardo, no one would ever understand her, love her, the way Enrico does.

Suddenly, it is more than simply a good feeling. Something is surging inside Lucia she does not comprehend, because she had no idea until this moment that it was possible. She does not need to understand it or be able to name it, though, to experience it, and Lucia’s first orgasm crashes over her more profoundly than the thunder and lightning that shakes the house.

Her reaction is to cling tighter to Enrico, and he presses her face hard into his neck so that his skin might swallow her screams. His fingers do not stop moving against her until Lucia sobs. He rests his hand between her thighs, the backs of his fingers brushing his neglected erection. Release still eludes him, but Lucia can do nothing for him. He would not sully her that way.

Enrico, however, does not factor in Lucia’s wishes. She has never been so aware of what one person might do for another, and she longs to make her brother feel as sublime as she does. After she has finished twitching, she shifts, ready to climb off his lap so that she might reach into his trousers. She has known throughout that he is stiff and desires her.

Once, many years ago, even before the day at the fountain, she spied Enrico in his room when he took himself in hand. She remembers him laying atop the covers, his trousers pushed down to mid-thigh, the afternoon sunlight turning his skin golden. She had gone to his room for some reason immediately forgotten when she saw his erection. It peeked over the top of the fist he clutched it in, red and glistening. His eyes were closed throughout, so he never saw her peeking through the crack at his door as he slowly stroked himself. She wondered what he was thinking about as he moaned. (He was thinking about her, even then, before the day at the fountain.)

Gradually, his pulls came quicker and she could see his fingers straining to hold himself more tightly. His face contorted, and she thought his frantic tugging was hurting him. That this was the self-harm she had heard Reverend Bidebent call a sin. But then his breathing grew ragged and pain turned to bliss as his seed shot over his fist.

His entire body went slack and the look on her brother’s face was so peaceful, she could not believe it was a sin. Recalling this moment when Enrico had looked happier than she has ever seen him since, Lucia wants to bring him that peace again. Surely, she could do the same for him now. She has thought on that afternoon so often, she is certain she can please him like this.

But Lucia doesn’t know how deeply her brother’s need for control goes. Without that knowledge, she does not understand why he grasps her wrists so forcefully when she tries to open his trousers. He pushes her down, flat on her back on the sofa, pinning her. Only now does she realize how sticky the hand that was under her nightgown has become. And he is holding her wrists on either side of her face, so she now notices the smell. Is that really her? Does he hate her mess and her smell?

“No, Lucia. It is enough.” But he cannot hide the tremor in his voice. The need and conflict.

“Let me touch you like you touched me!” Until this moment, she has thought this is merely a thing she longs for, but as the frantic words leave her mouth, she realizes it is an imperative. A thing that must be done if she is ever to know peace.

“No.” He shakes and releases her wrists. When he pushed her back, one foot went to the floor, as his other leg slipped between Lucia and the sofa back. He straddles her, and now he straightens up to gaze down at her frightened beauty, needing her, but swearing he must deny himself.

She fears to touch his waistband again, but Lucia cannot allow him to simply leave, so obviously unsatisfied. Instead of undressing him, she undoes her top button, then hurriedly works her way down until Enrico once more grabs her wrists. But her breasts are exposed, as she offers herself to him, praying it will be enough to keep him here.

“Enrico—” she begins, unsure what words she might use to convince him to use her however he desires. If he ravages her as she has always dreamed, she might be able to die happy.

He does not let her continue. His hard-fought control has deserted him, only one boundary still tentatively in his clutches—Lucia will not be permitted to debase herself by touching him. That he can still control. “Don’t…speak,” he says through gritted teeth.

In a blur, he opens his trousers enough that he can pull himself out much as she remembers from that day years ago. He’s achingly hard and the tip of his erection shines. The very sight of Lucia’s wide eyes beneath him is nearly enough to make him spend. He grabs himself, fierce self-hatred and extreme desire driving him on. Lightning illuminates the beautiful terror on Lucia’s face, and he has to brace himself with his free hand on the back of the sofa so he does not collapse on top of her. He pulls at himself brutally.

A shaking hand reaches towards him, and Lucia brushes the wound on his chest. He had forgotten it until her light pressure reignites the sweet pain. It has started to bleed again. Her bloody finger tracks down his chest, across his nipple.

“Cut me,” she pants. “When you’re done, cut me.”

With a growl, primal and honest, he spends in a great arc onto Lucia’s bare chest. He has been bottling up this need for longer than he realizes, and it keeps pouring out of him, coating the plain below her throat and down over her breasts. That one spied moment from years ago has not prepared her for this, and she has no notion how to react, only knows her brother’s passion for her is as intense as hers for him. They are together once more. Only one thing still keeps them apart.

“Cut me,” she whispers again.

Enrico’s usually neat hair clings to his sweaty forehead and his whole body shakes. But when his eyes now meet hers, something has slammed shut inside him. She wants to weep for how close they were to becoming truly united.

He stuffs himself back into his trousers and does them up enough so they will not fall from his hips when he stands. Then he carefully buttons Lucia’s nightgown, hiding the obscenity he left on her skin. He pats the final button at her throat, a job complete. He wishes there were some punishment he could devise for himself for committing this gross violation. But pain would only bring him additional pleasure he does not deserve. The only thing he can think of is to separate himself from her.

Gaze carefully averted, he climbs off her and walks to the door where he pauses. He wants to speak, but what can he say? He has defiled the most pure thing in this world, and all he wants is to do so again and again, over and over, for the remainder of their days.

Leaning the fresh cut on his chest against the edge of the doorframe, he loses the hate of himself for a blissful moment in the pain. “You are to marry Arturo Bucklaw,” he says, his hope Lucia will despise him so thoroughly after this, she will never again look at him with the need that sets his passions on fire.

He hears her sob, but does not remain for more.


	4. Chapter 4

The urge in Enrico to keep his distance, literally and figuratively, from Lucia wars with his need to control what happens to her. It is in these days that she turns to Edgardo, that she promises him, while standing at the fountain, to love him and call him husband. Enrico misses these moments until it is almost too late. Normanno warns him that Lucia and Edgardo meet, and Enrico hurries the marriage to Arturo, even though she ought to still be mourning their horrible mother.

More than the power and status that marriage to Arturo will bring, Enrico desires the ability to direct Lucia’s life. He sees that if Arturo is his choice, he will never lose Lucia’s affections to her husband. He wishes he could lock her in her room and never let her out for anyone but himself, but the world conspires against that. At least Arturo is not Edgardo, and not a man she will ever grow truly fond of.

But she remains recalcitrant to the marriage with Arturo, and Enrico needs her to cooperate so that Arturo does not change his mind. He cannot convince her to feel love for this man who will be her husband, but he has other weapons in his armory. Enrico will explain to her that his life will be in danger of she does not accept this marriage. Whatever Lucia might feel for anyone else, she will not want her dear brother dead. Even though he left her the night of the storm and never touched her again.

She guesses at her brother’s reasons. In so many ways, she is horribly naïve, but she knows that what they have done—in the eyes of the world, although never her own—is a terrible sin. The Bible also tells her that what she and her brother shared is wrong, but why, she cannot understand. She has never felt more alive, experienced so much pleasure, as when Enrico had his hand beneath her nightgown. So why should it be a sin? Even after he touched her, and he straddled her, spilled himself on her, she could not call any of it wrong. Enrico was clearly overcome by some sense of shame, but she did not think he should be. He had acted on his passion for her, and nothing could be more glorious. His look of ecstasy when he spent on her—she would crawl over gravel every day to bring that expression to him again.

But instead, every day, Enrico pushes her further away and toward Arturo. She quickly believes he will never want or accept her again. If she cannot bring a sigh of pleasure to him, she cannot remain at Ravenswood with only his cold glares.

And so she agrees to an exchange of rings with Edgardo. As she lies unsleeping in bed, she replaces her dreams of being ravaged by Enrico with images of being sweetly kissed by Edgardo. She does like him very much, with a feeling very close to love if it is not love in fact. And Edgardo will be good to her, care for her, and take her from the home that no longer holds a reason for her to remain.

These are the threads running at cross purposes through the lives, hearts, and minds of Lucia and Enrico as he continues to insist she will marry Arturo. For the sake of the family, of course. As they are the only two left, she realizes this means primarily for his good. Lucia’s love for her brother has long meant she would sacrifice anything for him. But that changed the night of the storm. She cannot be strong for him the way she used to be. She will collapse and die under the weight of his icy heart if she remains tied to Enrico and Ravenswood.

Enrico’s deceits rapidly become more elaborate when he realizes Lucia will not happily marry Arturo as long as she believes Edgardo could swoop in and save her from the life her brother has planned. He works with Normanno and other servants to intercept all letters between the lovers. Lucia grows increasingly frantic, a fact Enrico can see without her telling him anything. When she has reached a state nearing madness, Enrico produces a letter purported to be from Edgardo. It is, in fact, a forgery, designed to crush her last shred of hope. As he had planned, Enrico impresses upon her that his very life may depend on her marriage to Arturo. In the end, she relents and a date is set for the signing of the marriage contract and the wedding.

Lucia sleepwalks through the days between when she agrees to her brother’s marriage plans for her and Arturo’s arrival. She sees no reason to go on, without the love of any man she cares for. Edgardo is gone, and clearly Enrico does not love her as she once believed he did or he would not be giving her to another. Her only relief comes from her long walks with Alisa, always ending at the Fountain of the Siren. But to her, it is not a fountain—it is a tomb. More than once she wonders if there is room for another lover in its depths.

But it is not enough. She cannot idly wander toward her fate. Lucia needs something to make the loss manageable and distract her from what awaits her. What can she do, though? She has nothing that might easy her agonies.

Then she remembers what Enrico does when he is in pain. Why can she not do the same? He sometimes leaves his knife behind in his rooms, and the next time that he does, she can take it and find her herself the release he has known all these years. Of course, as soon as she formulates this idea, Enrico is never to be seen without his knife. She contemplates using another knife—Ravenswood is littered with dirks and skean-dhus and more—but she knows the one Enrico wears at his belt will be perfect.

The day finally comes when a message arrives calling Enrico to Edinburgh. He is in such a rush, he forgets the knife on his desk among his papers. Lucia hides it under her shawl until she can slip away without chance of someone coming to find her. She thinks about doing this in her bedroom, perhaps over her wash basin to catch the blood. But she worries someone may walk in and find her. No one, though, would ever look for her among the dusty trunks of the top floor. Gathering up the cloths she uses monthly, she dashes upstairs with the knife.

Neither she nor Enrico have been in the room for months, and no one else ever comes here. The dust she stirs up makes her sneeze, but she will feel more comfortable with a trunk in front of the door. It is not enough to stop anyone, but it will give her warning. After that, she curls up in the corner where she and her brother always sit together. It’s smaller than she remembers it being when they were children. She does not think about how much she has grown or that Enrico used to move the dresser she now leans against to give her more room. But she is settled under the dirty window, which should give her enough light to do what she must.

As she remembers Enrico doing that day at the fountain, she rolls up her left sleeve to her elbow. Then she arranges her cloths on the floor. With a shaking hand, she picks up the knife and stares at it.

She hesitates.

But why? She does not fear pain, and in fact, longs for it. Part of her does worry that she will cut too deeply and then have to find someone to help her, and she has no story to explain how she cut herself knowing the truth would be impossible to share. More than that, though, it feels wrong to do this without Enrico. Yes, she wants the release she believes this will grant her, but to do so without her brother, strikes her as the only part of this that is wrong.

Lucia closes her eyes, and thinks about Enrico and how much they once shared with each other in this room. He told her of his desires to leave Ravenswood, Lammermoor, even Scotland altogether, and see the world. She told him she has imagined epics in her mind that she wishes to one day write down. They shared even more intimate secrets, too. He confesses that pain excites him, and she admits sometimes violence makes her wet.

Or at least once they shared these secrets. He tells her nothing now, even though she aches for him. At this very moment, she throbs as she pictures him as he was that morning, stalking around the house in a fury as he prepared to leave. And this is when she wonders if she could not find her release in another way, one she has already experienced with her brother.

Furtively since the night of the storm, she has moved her hand between her legs, but never with the effort and purpose that Enrico did. What would happen if she did so now? She puts the knife down and gathers her skirts.

Pushing her underthings aside, she reaches in and finds herself as damp as she has ever been. Mimicking her brother’s touch, she slips two fingers inside herself and gasps before taking them out and pressing them against the point of her body that wakes her with throbbing some nights.

The sensation is almost as overwhelming as when Enrico did this to her. It’s remarkable to her how easily her fingers slide over that spot, and she finds herself moaning softly. For a time, it feels remarkable, and she thinks she might be about to reach her crisis, but it eludes her. She presses the fingers back inside herself to slick them again, and marvels at how good it feels to have something inside her. She tries to reach her other hand between her legs to see if she can touch both places at once, but she only gets in her own way. Perhaps if she had something she could push inside.

The knife sits beside her on the cloths. She checks that the sheath is safely buttoned around the blade before grasping it tightly and pushing the hilt inside her. She slides lower on the floor and lets out a long groan before moving her slick fingers back to the throb.

She quickly realizes she need only spread her legs obscenely wide and then she can work the knife back and forth inside her while touching herself with the other hand. She envisions Enrico coming home and finding his knife covered in her wetness. Would he pick it up? Would he hold it to his nose and smell her? Her body shudders and the wave crashes through her.

However, once she finishes, Lucia is not so bold. She uses her cloths to clean the hilt and the spot she has left on the floor. (Did she leave a spot like this on Enrico’s trousers the night of the storm, she wonders? Of course, she did.) And then she sneaks the knife back to his room.

But how is Enrico doing at this time? He experiences a few twinges of discomfort at his lies and manipulations, but he knows no other way to keep his sister his own, if only in his soul. He had hoped with his mother dead, with complete control of the estate, he would be the master of his destiny. He would not need to seek release in his blade, and he would have Lucia utterly beholden to him. In truth, he has three wounds in various stages of healing as he rides hard to Edinburgh. When he arrives, exhausted and missing Lucia, all he wants to do is slice at his body until his skin is red with blood. And then ride back to her as fast as his horse will take him.

He must send her away. He longs to keep her near. Lately at night when he lays unsleeping in his bed, he remembers what she told him in the corner of the upper floor when they were so much younger. Does she still dream of a man ravaging her? Would she want it to be him? If only he could see her now up in that corner and what she does with his knife, he would know the answer is yes. He wants to be that man for her, the man who satisfies her and bring her delight. And yet, if he allows himself that, particularly after the night of the storm, he knows it will be too much. He will need her as much as he needs air. He already needs her more than is good for them, and he must give her up to Arturo. For both their sakes.

He is too stubborn, trusts Lucia too little, to explain any of this to her. That is until after the disastrous signing of the marriage contract and Edgardo’s surprise return. That night changes everything. Enrico has no choice but to return to the complete honesty he and his sister used to share. It is either that, or lose her entirely.


	5. Chapter 5

The signing of the marriage contract—the moment everything nearly falls apart for Enrico. Lucia wanders though it in a lethargic, melancholic state that worries Arturo. Enrico blames the death of their mother for his sister’s odd behavior, and Arturo would have been gentleman enough to accept this explanation if Edgardo does not burst in. But the papers are sighed by then, and Edgardo sent away. All that matters is getting Lucia to the altar now. To that end, Enrico goes to her room to soothe and reassure her. He does not intend for anything other than a talk. But fate has more in store for the Ashton siblings who believe they can bury their true passions under contracts and pretending.

Lucia is in bed when Enrico arrives at her room. She cried herself into exhaustion and now twitches fitfully, and at first he does not know if she is awake or dreaming. He does know she remains the most beautiful woman in the world. But she is so much more than simple loveliness—she is fire and meaning and the only thing in his life that is sacred to him. With the wedding imminent, he must face that she will not be his alone any longer. And soon, Arturo will touch her, defile her, claim her as his own. Yet in his heart, Lucia will always be his. He knows it is lunacy, but he must make her his own.

He sits on the edge of her bed, Lucia still unsettled. Worried Edgardo might return, Enrico has left the knife on his belt, only stopping in his rooms long enough to deposit his jacket. He now takes the knife and places it on her bedside table. Then he removes his cravat and loosens his cuffs. When Lucia rolls toward him, her breasts pushing at the fabric of her nightgown, he is captivated. He longs to bite them, possess them as his property as surely as he owns Ravenswood. But what will he do? What has Enrico Ashton—tortured son, protective brother, bruised soul—truly come into his sister’s room to do?

Knowing how little time he has remaining with Lucia gives energy to his passions and madness. He sucks one of the dark nipples he spies through the gauzy fabric into his mouth. Lucia hums and stirs, but still does not wake. He gathers up her nightgown, his hand relishing the warmth of her thighs. When he hears her gasp, Enrico relinquishes her nipple and looks up at her with such longing she cannot breathe.

“You have to be mine before….” He trails off, not able to complete the thought. “I want to give you everything.”

 _Everything_ wakes her fully and immediately. It is what she has always longed for, but in Lucia’s mind it means something very specific. Something she well understands other girls certainly would not. Does Enrico truly mean he will share all of his experiences so there is no longer any gap between them? It is all she truly wants from life. She knows her marriage will be a torment. Edgardo is gone. Her only hope is to at last have what she has wanted from Enrico ever since the day at the fountain and more.

Their relationship has changed since the days of Secret Boxes, lies told and secrets kept now littering the space between them, and yet they still know each other better than anyone will ever know them. Enrico reads and understands the unspoken question on his sister’s face. He picks up his knife from the table, still in its sheath, and traces the valley between her breasts. She whimpers and sighs as though already close to ecstasy.

“We will always be together after this,” he says. “Wherever you are, you will remember that you are mine.” He lays his body atop hers and they kiss, years of hunger searching for sustenance.

Enrico does not know where to touch Lucia first now that he has given himself over to his deepest urges with such abandon. Lucia only knows that she desires their skin to touch, so she sets to work opening his trousers. With each tug at the buttons, she can feel him growing. Will he make love to her? Surely becoming one flesh is part of his “Everything.” A rush of dampness seeps down the insides of her thighs.

Enrico becomes as aware of his body as he is of Lucia’s, and realizes what she is trying to accomplish. Yes! He sees what he must do with striking clarity.

He kneels over her, opening his trousers, his mouth literally watering at the sight of her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breaths. He truly could consume her—make Lucia a part of him, so irrevocably attached to his body no one else could have her. For now, though, he must remove his trousers. Damn! How can he still be wearing his shoes? Lucia sees the frustration on his face and sits up to open his waistcoat and shirt. They exchange frenzied kisses, but he has to climb to the side of the bed, kick off his shoes, rip off his trousers and underclothes and socks. Part of his chest is now exposed, but he has no time for worrying about removing more.

Once more he is atop her, and they are kissing, his bare erection now brushing the skin of her thigh. They are both on fire with need and lust. No one else could ever understand who they are, and their need for this connection overwhelms decency, good sense, and morality. More than one Ashton has been disavowed for madness. So what of Enrico and Lucia? What of their incestuous love? The answer, perhaps, is immaterial.

Enrico pushes the hem of Lucia’s nightgown up to the tops of her thighs, barely concealing her sex. (He does not want to see it yet, to risk becoming distracted. The fact he can smell her already stokes the fire of his passion.) Then he picks up his knife and pulls it from its sheath. Lucia’s maid helps her dress, so he has to choose carefully. High on her thigh will be covered by her underthings, which she can put on herself. Then he will cut himself in the same spot on his opposite thigh.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“For years,” she answers, tears leaking from her eyes. She has longed for this so much, remembering not so long ago when she crept into Enrico’s rooms and took his knife and thought about doing this to herself. But she sees that she was right—it would not have been the same. And now, with him looking over her, agreeing of his own accord to do this, she is happy she waited.

He kisses her, fast and deep, before straddling her knees. He stares at the beautiful, smooth skin, bends down, and places a soft kiss there before he marks it forever as his own. Then leaning back, he carefully places the blade to her skin, and more thoughtfully than he has ever done anything in his life, he pulls the blade toward himself.

Lucia cries, but with an ecstatic smile on her lips. Enrico’s sexual desire is heightened more by her overwhelming pleasure than anything else he has known. Only his fear of going too far keeps him from cutting her to ribbons. His entire body, save the hand holding the knife, trembles.

“Again!” she pleads, her body writhing beneath him so that he must quickly move the blade to prevent an accidental cut. But she notices nothing other than the exquisite joy of finally understanding her brother more intimately than anyone else could ever know him.

Enrico leans forward, places his free hand on her chest to hold her still while he allows himself to make one more cut into her flesh. Once more her cries of joy almost overwhelm him, as now he can also feel their vibrations in his hand. He does not wait for her to ask again. He must not let himself lose control of her body in this way, and his own body longs for it too intensely.

He cut her left leg, and so now he drags the edge of his blade along his right in a mirror spot to hers. She watches in awe, wishing she had the courage to ask if she might cut him herself. But she does not know how much pressure to use or how deep to cut. Perhaps one day he will show her and they can do this for one another. For at least this moment, she has forgotten Arturo and that there is no guarantee she and Enrico will ever be like this again.

The knife quivers in his hand after he makes a second cut, nothing having ever felt so intense to him before. He slams the knife, still bloody, down on the table. Lucia stares at him, her lips slightly parted, her breaths coming in uneven pants. He lays atop her, lining up their cuts, pressing their thighs together.

“We are now the same blood,” she whispers.

“And now to be the same flesh,” he answers back.

Enrico slips between her legs, and even though he knows she is wet and waiting, he reaches between her legs to feel how ready she is for him. He wonders if she has ever gotten this wet for Edgardo. (No.) He knows she will never feel this for Arturo. He pushes two fingers inside her and she moans. This will always be exclusively his. This need and want belongs to him.

He braces himself on either side of Lucia and enters her. Her head tips back in the thrill of the pleasure and the hurt. They feel the blood of their thighs mingle again. The bliss of it sets Enrico’s hips to thrusting faster and deeper.

“We are bound now Lucia, by blood and flesh,” he whispers in her ear. “We are one.”

She clutches him to her, these sensations more than she thought the world had to offer. It is so much, she weeps as she moans, her legs wrapping around her brother’s back.

“Always one,” she says. “I can never be whole without you. We are one. You are my husband.”

His thrusts grow fiercer, and her mind and body shatter, and when his crisis floods them both, he tries to hold their broken parts together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! What happens next? Is it like the opera? Does the wedding take place shortly after this night (the time line isn't clear to me, and I just decided it was what worked dramatically for me)? Does the last shred of Lucia's sanity snap as she stabs Arturo? Who knows. I leave it to you, my dear readers, to decide for yourselves. And seriously, anyone who has made it to this point IS dear to me. Thank you SOOOOOO much for reading!


End file.
